


Dressed Up

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), F/M, Feminism, Gender Dysphoria, Gender politics, M/M, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), non-binary Crowley, personality confusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:41:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21574696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Aziraphale wonders, why is Crowley no longer changing?Crowley isn't sure either.But, by the end, they have an answer they both like.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 259





	Dressed Up

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Dysphoria. Pronoun confusion. Crowley has some personality splitting, but is reasonably integrated. 
> 
> If you are personally offended or upset by this fic, please either politely discuss or accept that it isn't your truth. We don't all experience the world in the same way.
> 
> And we definitely don't have the luxuries that Crowley does.

“It’s almost a shame,” Aziraphale says, apropos of (apparently) nothing.

Crowley had been listening. Of course he had. He always listened, even when he made it look like he wasn’t. But there had been a little lull in the words, as they basked in the unusually mellow winter sun. Their bench was always miraculously dry and accommodating, whenever they came to sit upon it, but Crowley thinks today’s crisp air and diffuse light might be part of the angel’s doing. He’s not even sure if Aziraphale is aware he does it, at times: projecting his hopes and needs out just enough to make the world flex softly to a more pleasant one.

The demon glances sidelong to see where the angel is looking, then gazes in the same direction to see if he can work out what prompted the interjection.

Nothing really obvious. No one littering. No one glued to electronic devices (which the angel still could not accept could contain literature, or any redeeming content). No morons handing out false tales of falser versions of gods. Just Humans, being Humans.

“Alright, I’ll bite,” he says, at painful length. 

“Hmm?”

“You said it’s a shame, angel. You are aware that saying leading things aloud is normally - well - it leads somewhere?”

“Oh, I…” Flustering.

He still flusters. Even now. The damned angel is so ridiculous, like that. They have literally - and ‘biblically’ - known one another in pretty much every way possible. Aziraphale went to Hell in his body, and then they both found a better Heaven in a much cruder sense.

Repeatedly. Messily. Gloriously. 

Which wasn’t to say they hadn’t known one another before, it was just now a bit more sticky. Crowley is fairly sure there’s nothing Aziraphale could possibly do, or say, that would be worthy of this kind of shyness. 

But shyness comes from within, he supposes. It’s what the angel himself is feeling, not what he really thinks Crowley thinks.

“C’mon, angel,” he wheedles, without any force. Sometimes Aziraphale needs a little nudge.

“I was just looking at that young lady, and - don’t you for one minute assume I was thinking of her in any untoward way, because it is only you and--”

“Angel.”

“You never wear dresses, not any more.”

Huh. Okay. Crowley had never once thought that the angel was truly interested in anyone else. He had, instead, doubted Aziraphale’s interest in _him_ , but not because someone else would sneak in there. But he can see why the angel is fixating on that.

“I could put one on, if you want me to.”

“I know, but… you used to just… I’m sorry. It’s foolish of me.”

“No… it’s bugging you. I told you I could put one on. I just haven’t felt like it… dunno why.”

But it’s more than a sartorial comment, he knows. It’s why those blue eyes won’t look his way. 

“...that would be very lovely, dear.”

Crowley can see from the tightness in his mouth that Aziraphale isn’t quite done, though, and he leans deeper backwards over the bench. Man-spreading, isn’t it? Limbs all over the place. Can’t do that in a dress. Not and be decent, anyway.

Asking him head on won’t work. But every time he tries to think of the angle to take, the disaffected way to tackle it, his mind sort of… stops. And the silence - once comfortable - becomes like a scratchy blanket. The air chilling, just half a degree. 

“I didn’t - I didn’t mean to imply that I was… dissatisfied,” Aziraphale ventures, after an eternity of seconds and nothing good in any of them. 

“I didn’t get that vibe.”

“I was more concerned about… you.”

“...because I haven’t put on a glad rag in years?”

“It’s been centuries!”

“Centuries? Angel… you _do_ remember Warlock, right?” 

“That wasn’t you.”

“That wasn’t… what are you on about? It was me! And you, before you go all Twilight Zone on me. It was **us**.”

Aziraphale’s brow creases. “It was the Nanny.”

“I was the Nanny.”

“No, you… ah…”

This is something like those fundamental disagreements over the first sock you put on, wasn’t it? Maybe he doesn’t know the angel so thoroughly if this is…

“Go on.”

“Brother Francis… he was not ‘me’. Yes, I was there, but it was not ‘me’. He wasn’t… truly real. He was… he was a face, in order to… to perform a task. A… role.”

“Right.”

“So it was not, as it were, ‘me’.”

“...okay.” Crowley can sort of see that. “Well. Not the same for me.” He’s not sure he likes where this conversation is going, though, and now the cold is making him hot. Itchy. 

“Are you saying you - ah - ‘are’ - or… ‘were’ Nanny Astoreth?”

“Uh… yeah? I mean. She… I didn’t think ‘what would she do’, I just… was her?”

“I see.”

“...don’t think you do. Not sure I even do. Angel… it’s…” He’s never really thought about it. He just was her. And she’s - it’s not like she’s dead. She’s in him, somewhere. An aspect, perhaps, or… no. It sounds weird. “I didn’t feel like… I was putting on something false.”

“Oh.” 

A young couple with a very enthusiastic dog bounce past, and they quiet, waiting for the next free moment.

“I have always been the same,” the angel says, eventually. 

“Right.”

“I have… changed my… ‘cover’, and my clothes, but I… I have felt as if I am… me. And even now, after what we did in Tadfield, I do not feel like I am…” 

“Different?”

“Yes,” he breathes. “I feel as if this is who I always was, and now I simply… know that I am. That I know who I am, without outside forces requesting or demanding anything of me.”

Crowley considers that, considers him. Lets himself gaze the angel up and down, and then nods. “Suits you. I couldn’t pull those clothes off - well. Except onto the floor.”

“My dear!” The protest is, of course, equal parts delighted and playful. Part of a game, and not true outrage.

“It’s true. You… are you. Kind of always have been. I mean, I could always see… something. And now it’s not… now you’re not hiding it, or afraid of it. It’s… don’t look at me like that! It’s… _nice_.” He spits the word out, even though it’s a different connotation in this case. 

“But you… I always felt like you…” Aziraphale bites his lip.

“Say it,” Crowley asks, softly. 

“You changed so much. Your hair, your clothes, your - your _name_.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t have a great--”

“Not just that. You gave yourself a Human name, too.”

“...kind of helped with the--”

The blue eyes on him, now, make his tongue still in his mouth. Then stir, restlessly, behind his teeth. 

“Are you happy, now?” Aziraphale asks. 

“...happiness is--”

“With _you_.”

Okay, that’s too close to the bone, and Crowley nearly just fucking walks off and finds some way to turn it into a fight. Into an insult. Into something he can be righteously angry about, and then leave to cool down. It’s - he can’t say that!

“Angel.”

“Are you… are you? Some days I think you are. Other days it feels… I get a sense of…”

“Don’t.”

“...alright.”

“Just. Don’t.”

The conversation stops. Crowley wishes it had never begun.

***

Happy. Happy! Is he happy. What the fuck kind of question is that? Of course he’s happy, most of the time.

He lives on Earth. No more Hell. No more stupid reports and demons who don’t know their own job. No more being beholden to a ridiculous, forced dichotomy. No more worrying (so much) that they’ll find him out.

The world is going to keep going. Being ridiculous, full of inventions and ideas and thoughts and accidents and wine and poetry and memes and jokes and videos of people falling into holes and coming up with totally insane solutions to everything. Ducks. Fast cars. Movies. 

And, of course, Aziraphale. 

Mostly Aziraphale, but having somewhere and when in which to be with the angel is absolutely fantastic. Not just the (admittedly very vigorous and adventurous) sexual exploits they’ve since added, but the things he always liked before but could now do _without worrying about it_.

He’s happy.

Of course he’s happy. 

Okay some days he was more happy than others, and it wasn’t as if every waking minute was ecstatic, but neither should it be. It would be exhausting to constantly live in bliss, physical or otherwise. It would also be meaningless, because he wouldn’t know.

Kind of… turning Heaven into true Hell, really. Sound of Music forever and all. No shitty days. No things to complain about. No traffic. No…

He did Humans a favour, really. Making them grumpy over the years meant they got to complain, and appreciate the good times more, right? Yeah, yeah, Problem of Evil and--

Happy. Wrong word for this. 

Happy wasn’t what Aziraphale was, but… comfortable. Content. Correct. He still got bitchy about the potential failing of printed words, he still complained about modern music, he was still a food snob. But he knew - deep down - who he was. What he wanted. He chose this, all of this. 

He could change things, or try, if he didn’t like them. But since they’d been honest with one another, it was as if this weight had lifted from the angel. A weight, a shadow, that had been there, even in the paradise that was Eden. A shadow Crowley underands too well.

Happy.

No.

Himself.

***

“Is this what you meant?” Crowley asks, looking into the mirror.

Aziraphale isn’t there. He’s… he’s practicing. Like some idiotic Human rehearsing what to say.

The dress is sheer, Breakfast-at-Tiffany’s, hugging and dramatic. It looks good on this body, but it’s… is looking good enough?

The next one is high fashion. Big in places, not in others. Overly-complicated. Utterly impractical.

Dumb.

Gone.

Old fashioned ones, back from when Aziraphale had seemed most confident before the modern times… those ones look too much like he’s walked off the set of a period piece, or that he’s practicing for a gothic wedding. 

No.

Nanny’s outfit, next. But that makes him remember fear and a child and…

No.

He snaps and recreates the outfit the woman had been wearing in the park. Pastel colours, a wide belt, leggings to keep her legs warm and comfortable brown boots.

He looks… ridiculous. Not that it looks bad on his frame, it’s that… it’s not ‘him’. It’s. He can’t do colours, not like this. He can’t do ‘normal’. It’s. He…

He’s not comfortable in any of it, and he snaps back to his current preferred outfit.

Only this one feels wrong, too. 

How? A few weeks ago, he’d not have thought twice. But now, he can’t unsee hems, lines, colours (or lack thereof). It’s not… him. He’s… damnit.

He’s not happy with himself. With his life, yes, but himself?

***

“Why?” Crowley asks, as Aziraphale leafs through a newspaper. A Human one, this time. 

“Why… what, my dear?”

“Why was it a dress that made you think something was wrong?”

“I… I always…” Aziraphale’s lips tighten. “I was always envious of you, before. When you weren’t happy with something, you… did something. And I suppose, to me, seeing you change your appearance so… it became a symbol for me.”

“I was just trying to fit in, that’s all.”

“No, dear. You never fit in. You were always something more than everything else.”

That’s soppy as fuck and Crowley snorts. 

“I mean it. You… really did stand out. And not just to me.”

“And now?”

“Now… I think you do change when you feel the need to, but I am concerned you do it because you haven’t found your… balance.”

“And?”

“And… I worried that, perhaps, you might feel the need to not try to… accomodate me.”

What? Crowley has only his phone to hide behind, and he glares at it. 

“You think I wouldn’t - what? Angel…”

“Well, we have never discussed… I… oh, look.” Newspaper down, reading glasses to the end of his nose. “I am sorry I am being very ineloquent about this. It is simply that I care very deeply about you, and I do not wish to… upset you, or--”

“Angel. Do you think I’m - I’m making myself unhappy for you?”

“...the thought had crossed my mind.”

“And you think that… you think I’m looking like this because… I’m afraid if I change you won’t… enjoy it? Approve?” 

Aziraphale laughs, and blushes crimson. “When you say it aloud, it does sound awfully self-centred, doesn’t it? I suppose I have… become accustomed to believing things were…”

“Your fault,” Crowley concludes, the light dawning proverbially.

“...ah…”

“No.” He waves, airily, trying to bat away the thoughts. So the angel isn’t _totally_ at home with himself, either. “S’okay.”

They have to talk, don’t they? Do those dumb mature, responsible things. He pulls a chair back from the table, turns it, and sits so he can drape over the back and prop his chin on his arms. 

“Well. I… I mean… I… blast. You’re going to think me utterly ridiculous.”

“I already do.”

His angel’s eyes crinkle. “You beast.”

“Your beast.”

“Well, I… when… before. I never knew what… what ‘we’ were. I mean… I hoped, but also I was terribly afraid. And I… when you would turn up, looking different again, I…” Aziraphale picks up his mug to mumble into it. “...part of me wished it was because of me.”

Oh. Ooooooh. Crowley’s brows lift. “You imagined my - outfits - were… me trying to tempt you?”

“Not so much ‘tempt’, as I was already beyond that. More… it… was a foolish fantasy I indulged in that you were trying to court my attention. Oh, don’t look so smug! You - I was very much in love with you, and I couldn’t say a _word_ , and--”

“It’s okay.” Crowley pushes a foot under the table, meeting the angel’s. “Honestly. It’s okay.”

“...then I started to worry that, perhaps, you felt you would need to remain like this, thinking it was… thinking it… was the only you I had liked.”

“Well. Now I know you love me for myself.” He’s trying for droll, but he worries it sounds more sincere, and he briefly sticks his tongue out to dry-choke the thought off. “Is this your way of saying you… don’t have a ‘type’?”

“...type?”

“...preference.”

“I do. It’s you.”

Stars preserve them. His face hurts from suppressing the smile. “I’m not sure a dress is going to bring me inner peace, you know.”

“No. Perhaps not. But… whatever it is that does… I wanted you to know that I would support it.”

“Even if I decided to dye my hair green, wear shiny polyester training clothes, and five inch heels?”

“...if… you _had_ to.” 

“Relax, angel. We might not have precisely the same taste in clothes, but I don’t think I’m capable of wearing anything truly hideous…”

Aziraphale leans, and clasps his shoulder, then kisses his cheek. “I always had thought you rather dapper.” 

Dapper. Such a fussy prude. Crowley truly does love him.

***

He is not male. He is not female, either. Not Human in any way.

He’s been both of the first, by choice. The third… he likes to think he’s a Foundling Human, maybe. One by adoption, if not by birth.

Maybe that distance, that ability to choose has its positives as well as its negatives. Crowley blinks away all the signs of reproduction from his naked body, leaving his chest bare of nipples, his belly flat and unpunctured. Removes the weight from between his legs, and leaves it smooth. 

He remembers adding those things. Curiosity, envy, a desire to fit in, a wondering if it really was worth what they all crowed so much about. The very power and self-determination involved in changing himself into something further from both Heaven and Hell, and yet - how could it be? She made them all. Why would it be ‘far’ from his own genesis? Surely an evolution, more than anything else.

He.

There was another adaptation. Before the whole birds and bees thing, they just had all… existed. There hadn’t needed to be a word to label what they were, because - well - everyone was one. Angel. Then angel-or-demon. Then mortals. Then gender. 

He.

Crowley knows that the term was applied first about ‘him’ by a Human, who had assumed. Initially, it had been a little offensive, because - well - they didn’t ask! And also, because Crowley had realised there was no way to correct them. “No, I’m not male, but I’m not female either, I’m…”

A demon. But it wasn’t a gender, and so the people wouldn’t have understood, would they? Even plants had genders. 

How they made more plants.

They made God a He, too, usually. 

He’d watched them turn things around so many times. Valuing the caring, then belittling it. Valuing a taller frame, bigger lungs, the better to hunt and kill with. Big hips. Slender. Pale skin. Ruddy. What was in, what was out… it swung around so frequently as to be almost blinding. 

And in amongst it all, the angel. The angel, who was always Aziraphale. 

Maybe devilment and contrariness made him become her for the first time. He’d cursed Eve, after all. Crawly had. Crawly, genderless and serpentine, had damned all of the childbearing mothers to pain, and then a heap of other, associated insults and injuries over the years.

Crowley had…

Sympathised. 

Being considered wrong, for thinking, for asking. Being treated as lesser. Being cast out of spaces that others considered sacred. Made to leave, made to serve, and made to feel wrong for things they thought, wanted, felt.

But ‘she’, she was still ‘him’. Them. Crowley. Crawly. Them. The sense of… self crossed over and felt one and the same. It didn’t matter what clothes the body wore, Crowley was something other. Something not-male, not-female. Not-angel, and not quite… the demon that Hell expected.

How did you ever process that? 

This body - with whatever fabric and leather it curled up in - was as much ‘Crowley’ as the other. Serpentine, and hated. Heaven had made sure of that. Crowley saw the lifted shoes, the screams, the stories about serpents and knew that this was as unwelcome as any other.

Except.

Except.

One being hadn’t flinched. One creature had allowed an approach, after Eve. One who knew what ‘he’ was, as he snuck up to look out and wonder about what he’d just done. 

Aziraphale. Who - with a little effort - remembered when Crawly became Crowley. Who looked surprised, but didn’t criticise when Crowley added more names. Who never once mentioned if the company across had crossed an invisible line drawn in the sand about what word to use to say ‘that one’ to others. 

Aziraphale had never treated them differently. Not based on what they looked like, only what they did. The changes weren’t for him, and he’d never - until now - even thought they’d registered. 

But he’d thought each one was different, or was that just his Nanny-self? 

Nanny had simply been parts of Crowley. Crowley couldn’t wipe away a scuffed knee on a child, but Nanny could. So Crowley could. 

It’s.

It’s.

***

“What would change?” he asks, as they lie in bed, refusing to rise. 

“Hmmm?”

“If I - you know. If I was ‘female’ for a while.”

“...I’m not sure. Would you want anything to change?”

Partly yes. Partly no. Who he is is who he is. And he shouldn’t be treated any differently. Should he? Why should one ‘type’ have the door held open, and why should the other ‘type’ do it? Why should clothing demand behaviours?

He’s happy.

He’s also… not.

“Would you think I was someone else?” Crowley asks. “Would you do things you wouldn’t do for me when I look like this?”

“...I’m not sure. Do you have specific things you’re thinking of?”

The phone goes down onto the bedside table. He’s serious, now. “Women are not weaker.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I like some things women get, but I don’t think I should have to be one, to get them.”

“I agree wholeheartedly.”

“So if I do, sometimes, look and act that way… I want to know you’d do the same things for me like this if I wanted you to.” He asked for specifics, though. “Like… holding doors and chairs. Offering to pick the wine. Bringing gifts. Those shouldn’t be linked to chromosomes, or what we make to resemble them.”

Because. Damnit. 

“My dear… I would do anything you asked, no matter what you look like.”

“You… wouldn’t feel… uncomfortable? If I was…”

“I am not ashamed of you, of us. Not… shame is the wrong word for what I felt before. Or…” Aziraphale looks… terrible.

“It’s okay. I’m not upset about that. Not… it’s okay.”

“I am very much proud to be your partner, Crowley. And what you look like or want does not matter to me one whit.”

It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t. It does, and it doesn’t. It’s… this body isn’t quite ‘Crowley’, but it’s close. And all those rituals of courtship… they come from the Humans around them. There isn’t any equivalent, not for them. Angel and demons didn’t… do this.

Didn’t fall in love. 

Quite aside from the erotic element.

It’s.

How do you exist in a world that wasn’t really created with you in mind? Why is it even a thing? Why does the shirt button the other way? Why are there pockets? How do you choose where to sit, when they split people by a simple line that isn’t even actually that simple, biologically speaking, for all the Humans anyway? 

Why are they even conforming to things that don’t, actually, really apply? 

Crowley’s worn what he wanted. Or she wanted. Right now there’s things from all aisles of all ‘genders’ all over their flat. And he - hah - ‘he’ realises he’s just been agreeing to these rules, hasn’t he? 

Do this. Do that. Don’t question.

You in this box. You in that box. 

You get to be the doctor, you get to be the nurse. You wear the blue, you wear the pink. You hunt, you gather. 

Rules.

Like, say, ‘don’t eat that fruit’. ‘Don’t ask that question’. 

Fuck it. 

Why should the several billion Humans and their majority voices stop Crowley from wearing a dress and being ‘he’? Or being ‘he’ and deciding today is a day for maybe trying the other model in the pants? Or being spoilt? Or speaking up?

He’s not afraid of them, is he? 

What’s the worst that can happen? God threw Crawly out. Aziraphale won’t. And no one but the angel really matters, truly, deep down. 

“I’m not male,” Crowley says, with certainty. “And I’m not female.”

“No, you’re not.” A little smile, and a hand cupping his cheek.

“You really don’t mind?”

“How could I mind? I love you.”

Right.

Screw it.

***

Crowley is ‘him’. And - as much as ‘he’ hates that it upholds that patriarchal bullshit about male being the default, it’s just what Crowley has been called more than not.

Him.

But ‘him’, he’s decided, does not mean ‘male’. It’s simply an easy handwave that works on the tongue. ‘Them’ might be more accurate, but whatever, if he’s happy, he’s happy. It’s just a fucking word.

So.

Crowley. Him. But not male. Check.

And. Those other things?

Anthony. Anthony is him. Maybe, even, that’s the male, if he wants to be male. Yes. Okay. If he feels he wants that. And female? Well… Antonia would work. Bit of a mouthful.

“Annie?” suggests his angel.

Annie. Perfect. Annie, if he wants to be female. 

They’re him. Wider him. Elements of. Like - like outfits, but deeper. Like putting on your posh clothes to go to the proms with your angel. Or deciding today is a skinny jeans and latte day. Yes.

But still Crowley. In jeans. In boots. In cute little dresses. In whatever Crowley wants. 

He honestly can’t fucking believe it took him this long to realise he was - hah - conforming. Conforming. Him. First troublemaker of all on Earth, and it was the angel who had to shake him out of it. 

He looks in the mirror at his outfit. It’s… it’s good. But it’s good because he’s happy, not because the clothes are what he needed.

Still. He’s not been able to be fully intimate with his angel when he’s been… looking and feeling more feminine. And it’s starting to bother him.

***

Annie pulls her lips in. She’s doing it so often that - on any other creature - the red would have come off by now. But instead, the rich, matte-ruby colour remains precisely where she put it. 

They are out for dinner.

Aziraphale has been, as always, the perfect gentleman. (She wonders, briefly, if she should re-cast that as gentle-being, or gentle-angel, but Aziraphale has never expressed any desire to be considered other than male, so---)

It’s winter, so the skirt is long and her legs are in seamed stockings, held up with a suspender belt that is _entirely_ for her angel’s benefit. She’s already taller, but the smart, stiletto heels are essential. Just because she’s already the tallest doesn’t mean she should hide from it. She _wants_ to be seen. **Wants** to make an entrance. Wants to feel good about the way it tilts her hips and makes her aware of the pressure on her toes, the arch of her spine.

(Also, she doesn’t have to suffer painfully after, and fucked if she’s going to feel guilty about that. If she wants to do it, she’s doing it.)

The blouse glistens, a soft, silvery sheen to the anthracite tones, and it shows off her long neck. She’s never been fond of being particularly top-heavy (just not ‘her’. Aziraphale was the one with the real swells and curves, and they looked perfect on him, and that was that) but the lacy bra she deigns to wear does give a little extra balcony to her chest, and also peeks very slightly out if she leans in any direction with enough intent. Not scandalous, but assuredly ‘racy’. 

A simple necklace, floating between her collarbones, and one elegant bracelet which her angel had gifted her.

It’s.

She feels…

She feels good. The slide of her thighs together when she lifts one leg to cross the other. The way her chest feels higher, and… more delicate? No. Tender. The eyes she allows to run over her, and the confusion they feel when they see her dinner companion. He’s updated his wardrobe, but only just, and they look like a couple out of time.

They’re jealous. The Humans. They’re jealous. And she sees more than a few people nod and smile, maybe different from the subtle ‘oh, you’re together’ looks they get when he’s dressed differently, and people are glad to see them happy that way, too.

But they haven’t done more than kiss. Fingers on the pulse of her wrist. A hand on the small of her back. She knows her angel is willing, but she’s not quite been ready. Not yet. And he’s been alright with waiting.

It isn’t like they waited six thousand years, except - yeah. They did.

Their first time had been ridiculous. It had started with a fight, somehow moved to kissing and then - as if by silent, mutual agreement - had ended up with hands in trousers and then different kinds of screaming and eventually some sheepish glances and admissions that maybe they should have done that sooner.

Not that it was needed. You know. Crowley would have been fine with just wine and dinner and books and picnics and philosophical debates and little pastries and whatever… forever… but maybe being around the Humans so long had affected them. Given them ideas. Given them narratives, and suggestions, and _ideas_.

And Crowley had always been fond of asking ‘what if--?’

Maybe if he had been thinking about it, it wouldn’t have happened. Choked in politeness and concern and double- and triple-thinking every last element. When it came to the angel, it was important to get it _right_. But it had. And it had been… great.

Very physically satisfying. But better still… emotionally satisfying, too. Though not necessary, it added things to the ‘story’. To - to the Agreement. There were no patterns to follow but the ones they saw Humans follow, and this… this… meant something.

But only because they wanted it to.

Aziraphale was his, and he was Aziraphale’s, and they could make stupid faces and touch weird bits and put things in mouths and pull hair and bite and all sorts of utterly nonsensical things, just for the way it made them feel nice. And it wasn’t (usually) embarrassing, at least not in unpleasant ways, and Crowley could… relax. Allow it. _Enjoy_ it. Enjoy being doted on, enjoy being subjected to things meant only to improve his mood. Enjoy being wanted, both physically and… romantically.

But Annie…

What if it’s not as good? Or what if one of them likes it more than the other, and one of them has to compromise? Or what if she can’t enjoy it? Or what if it’s… it’s…

Annie knows that Crowley can make a dick that functions as a dick should, minus the baby-making (probably). And also that she still has other parts that would work to ensure the angel enjoyed himself, but it’s…

A hand curls over hers, stroking the back with one thumb. She’s been lost in her worrying, and she looks across to her angel, bashful. 

Maybe it isn’t just that she wants to look like this. Sharp teeth puncture her lip, but don’t draw blood. 

“My dear?”

“If… if I ask you for something… and you don’t want it…?” She can’t ask if she isn’t sure he would say no.

“If I actively don’t want, then I will say so.”

“But--”

“If I am uncomfortable, I will tell you, my darling.” The hand turns hers, and their palms slot together. 

Her heart is racing. It’s. She’s. Those eyes… so kind, so loving, so patient… but she wants…

“C-chase me?”

“I thought you would never ask.”

***

Crowley has always, bar once, been the one doing the chasing. Dancing somewhere between implying (not showing) his hand, and allowing the angel the space to refuse. He never wanted him to feel uncomfortable, always skirting around the issue, afraid to do more.

Aziraphale, though…

Now that he thinks back, the same could be said of the angel. Oysters. Picnics. Open doors. Smaller gestures, but there.

And now Annie thinks about it, she wants something different. The knowledge settles in like a dove landing, only to open its wings to reveal a hurricane. Her head is swimming, and as her hand is lifted for a kiss placed on the bones behind her knuckles, she feels an unfamiliar heat that seems to swirl in her belly and below. It’s… sort of like the male response, in the way that it precisely isn’t. It’s. 

It’s like. It’s not a sudden rush of blood to a place that waves hello. It’s blood, and slick, and warm, but it’s… openness. Emptiness. She feels her body start to shift, to tilt and expand and contract. Feels her channel ready itself, and the strange knowledge of loss, of lack, of… emptiness. Like hunger, but different.

Her jaw slacks in surprise, and she wonders if everyone here can smell the shift in her body, or if it’s just Aziraphale and herself.

Surely they must know. Surely she’s broadcasting her ripeness like a she-cat, or a bitch? 

Is there going to be a damp patch when she stands?

Annie crosses her legs firmly, clamping her labia together and willing things to remain not-too-obvious. Her cheeks are red from the idea that others might know she’s… well dressed like this she’s probably ready to fuck, but do they know just _how_ ready?

The shift gives a little pressure to the region, and it feels nice. Experimentally, she rocks a little, and the sensation seeps out and promises more, so much more, like the first stroke to a stiff dick.

“I could recommend a dessert,” the angel says, his lashes lowered along with his voice. “Perhaps we could share. I could feed you, and you, me.”

“Uh…”

The thought of watching Aziraphale eat is nearly too much. She nods, because ‘too much’ is pretty much her sexuality, when it comes to Aziraphale. 

Now he’s been given permission, the angel seems to have somehow unlocked something secret and dark. Something wicked and delicious. His finger tracing water-droplets up the stem of his glass, his tongue occasionally reminding the demon that it exists, and is also very cunning. 

How long has he fantasised about this? About - about seducing Crowley? Or Annie? Or both?

The sundae arrives, hot brownie and fudge, cold ice-cream and sauce. Annie watches as the long-handled spoon plunges phallically through the layers, scraping up the side to pull away something from every strata. 

Her sex aches at the thought. Fingers. Tongue. Cock. What would it be like to feel him inside? Better than when they were both the same? Wetter, certainly. He knows it’s different, different mechanism and physical layout, but…

A hand under her mouth, in case of spills, and she snaps her teeth onto the spoon’s handle before she drags lips and tongue over the food to slurp the bowl clean. 

“You look so ravishing tonight, my dear. I don’t know how you expect me to contain myself.”

She nearly chokes at that, and then makes a show of licking her lips clean. “What would be, theoretically, the worst that could happen if you didn’t? Contain yourself, I mean?”

“Well. I might scandalise everyone here by telling you how much I love you. How _gorgeous_ you are. I might kiss you and hold you close, before I--”

Annie nearly shatters the sundae bowl, and is less dainty at pulling a serving out. “Before you?”

Aziraphale leans in. His lips nearly touching her face. His breathing warm and alive. “Before I take you home and fuck you blind, you beautiful creature.”

The demon decides dessert is over. “Bed. Home. Now.”

***

In the cab, on the way back, she is shocked by the hand that rests boldly on her knee. It never slides higher, but it’s _there_. It’s there. Suggesting more. Implying. Perhaps even stating. 

Aziraphale is touching her, in front of other people. Barely indecent, but for them? It’s almost like screaming from the highest mountains. 

They’ve held hands. They’ve even kissed (soft little things, tender, not… not salacious). But this is the most brazen indication that they Intend To Fuck that there’s ever been. And damn, but it makes her glow in a way she’s never really known.

Aziraphale is proud of her. Of being with her. Of loving and wanting her. And he’s happy to let other people see, and to make her wait for more. Her belly flops around again like she’s drunk, and she waits when the cab stops and she’s asked to do so.

Crowley had held open car doors plenty. Aziraphale never had. Annie blushes like mad as she takes the offered hand, and rises elegantly from the black car to stand, punch-drunk, on the pavement. 

Why is she so giddy? It’s - silly! And - great! And… and… it’s like maybe a first time should be, in some magical, wonderful world where there isn’t false starts or failures to communicate, or where you’re born with the bits, know what to do, how and when, and everything goes like a crafted and deliberate work of art.

So it’s make-believe. So what. If they both believe, then it’s pretty much real, anyway.

She takes the offered arm, links it, and finds a way to balance her long legs against shorter ones as they approach the front door. 

“Are you sure?” she whispers, as they near it.

“You are _stunning_. And the love of my whole existence. And making you happy is my greatest honour. I am most assuredly sure.”

The hand on her back is almost on her ass as the door opens, and she strides in like a newborn gazelle, except one that’s actually a snake in a Human body, and wants to get most thoroughly laid. 

“After this,” she says, as she tries to work out if she should just toe off the shoes here and now, “...we need to do something on your list.”

“This _is_ on my list. Seducing the Serpent of Eden?” He comes up behind her, and kisses her neck. “But I am very happy to keep looking for more things.”

The warm lips are heavenly, and she spins on those heels to drape her arms around his neck. “Now that you have me, what _will_ you do to me?”

Aziraphale is an angel, and so he is stronger than he ‘should’ be, but she still squawks in surprise as she’s lifted and cradled close. 

It’s. Oh. Yes. Good.

“I had hoped I could take you to bed. I understand that the female of the species has a voracious appetite. But so do I.”

“Gnnnnnnh.”

***

Shoes off. Skirt slid up. Hands gripping the headboard as she feels warm palms slide up her thighs. The chuckle when they find the suspender clips is worth it, as is the soft massage as he peels the layers off her thighs. 

Up high, as a joke, black lace panties with a small, tartan heart over the front. Her face pushes into her arm to hide the giggle, or turn it into her belly bouncing beneath her ribs as she knows he’s reached them.

“Really. You are so considerate,” Aziraphale says, as his thumbs hook under the fabric, and encourage her hips to lift so he can pull the panties down.

“Only for you.”

“I’m glad. I would fight off other suitors, but I’d rather you chose me yourself.”

“You think I didn’t?” She’s about to be scandalised, when a thumb lands on her mound, above her lips, and presses down. 

“I know you did.”

“Y-you thought I’d - ever - **ever** want anyone but you?”

“Perhaps I like the jealous feeling, a little, when I see other eyes upon you. Perhaps I wonder if it would help to _remind_ you…”

Oh! Oh…. fuck. That suddenly rich tone, and the slip of his thumb between her lips… somewhere wet and smooth and a shock of sensation. She tilts her hips and keens when it leaves, only to nearly kick him when he pinches her labia closed and drags a finger over the join.

“Angel!”

“You’re mine, my dear. All of you is mine. Everything. No matter what. I will love it.”

No, no… too much. Too close. Too deep. It stings, weirdly, to hear that voice. To see that look. To be so vulnerable and… loved. She realises she’s crying, and then there’s kisses across her cheeks.

“...do you need me to stop?”

Yes. No. Yes. No. It’s.

She’s.

Afraid. Afraid. Not to be female, not to be taken, but to be - to be… known. To not hide. To let herself - himself - themself - be so bared, and so needy, and so easily destroyed. 

To accept that he really does love her, all of her. 

“I d-don’t… kkknnnow…”

The hand only cups her, then, not pushing the sensation. And she fights to keep her eyes closed until she can’t any longer.

When she looks up, it’s… it’s into compassion and caring that is so - so endless and _true_ that it’s overwhelming. 

This. This is what she needs. To be wanted. To be enough to be chased. To… 

“Please,” she hisses. “D-don’t… don’t stop.”

A solemn nod, and the next finger slices her open like a gut under the blade, and twice as effective. She howls and bucks, and there’s an angel whispering he loves her. Loves her. Would do anything for her. Would keep her safe and by his side forever. 

Annie can’t handle it. The thumb to her clit hood suddenly sparks a wave that has her foot pounding, and then there’s a curve of fingers inside. She’s bouncing and grinding, pushing into the pressure until it’s too much, and rocking her hips from side to side around a hand that knows her too well already. 

On. And on. And on. It’s ripping her wide open, exposing the dark, hungry beast in her chest. The fear, the ones she’s buried as far inside as she can. Her fingers in his hair as he hollows her out like a fruit, and the juice never stops gushing, and the pulses never stop coming. 

Annie is raw by the time he’s finished, and her heavy-lidded eyes watch those lips lick his fingers clean like they have the sweetest nectar he’s ever tasted in her slick. It glistens between his digits, and leaves trails across his lips. 

Her body is ticking, like a clock wound up to go for days. Every push of her pulse through her veins makes another contraction work her, and her hips twitch in exhaustion. 

She feels…

She feels…

“Angel,” Annie rasps, between breaths that fight to stay even.

“Yes, my dear?”

“I think I know what you meant, now.”

The lips at her neck nuzzle and kiss very sweetly. “I’m very glad to hear it.”

“Uh… if you give me a bit, I think I can…” she uses her knee to nudge the cock pressed close to her.

“How would you like to?”

“No,” she says, and kisses his cheek. “Your turn.”

It is, after all, about both of them. About who they are to one another, and who they are together. Her fingers draw just below the base of his skull. 

“Alright,” he concedes. “I should like it very much if you were on top. I would like my hands free to touch you.”

“Kisses first. You fucked my brains out.”

“Then I shall just have to fuck them back in.”

She drags him down for kisses before he can get any more ideas about his sense of humour. Better not let his ego get too big all in one day, right?


End file.
